Then he put out his hands and gripped my shoulders as he had done the first afternoon.
I forget if I mentioned that part of the damage I got at Loos was a shrapnel bullet low down at the back of my neck.

The wound had healed well enough, but I had pains there on a cold day.

His fingers found the place and it hurt like hell.
There is a very narrow line between despair and black rage.

I had about given up the game, but the sudden ache of my shoulders gave me purpose again.

He must have seen the rage in my eyes, for his own became cruel.
'The weasel would like to bite,' he cried.